


Austere

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Danse Macabre [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst and Humor, Awkward Flirting, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Professor-Student Relationships, Repressed Memories, Semi-Slow Burn, Sharing a Bed, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9019126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: Enough of that, he reminded himself, with a callous edge to the voice in his head, almost derisive as he paused. You were told to rethink your life. You had to consider the consequences of your disposition. Alternatively: To remove himself from the chaos of society, Obi-wan Kenobi became a recluse. And it all would've been good and fine, living that way, had he not met Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _fuck._ so I said I was going to write this in November for NaNoWriMo but I got tripped up and it never really... took off. but now I've solidified a basis for the plot, and so I'm FINALLY posting this potential trainwreck of an AU.  
>  if anyone is familiar with my other AUs, this piece is _technically_ meant to be in the same verse as my kylux AU 'fantasmagorie'. there's probably going to be a small tie-in later, but nothing too apparent, so.

**Austere**

_**…** _

_“He thinks that faith might be dead--nothing kills a man faster than his own head_  
_He used to see dreams at night, but now he's just watching the backs of his eyes.”_ _  
_       - Trapdoor, Twenty One Pilots

 

**_1._ **

There were a great many ways of wasting time, presuming one had the time to waste. Obi-wan’s days were always similar, blurring shades of grey and white, occasionally teetering the line of darkness; it had taken time, of course, to adjust. Time to adjust to that pressing sense of _frustration,_ an endless depression that had somehow burrowed inside his heart when he’d allowed his guard to slip.

Some would say it started because of a failure-- a grievance, rather, in light of what had happened before. Insanity, at the loss of what little Obi-wan had for himself in the first place, dissociation with the loss of what would’ve commonly been presented as his emotions. And it wasn’t, per se, that Obi-wan had _desired_ to part from his emotions, those feelings and memories that had all but given him hope for the bleak, wasted years of his middle-life.

No, if he’d been quite honest, his _fears_ were the only thing that had seemed capable of saving him for an indefinite amount of time. But they were also dangerous, particularly in the world he’d come to be so well-acquainted with, and it was better to pretend… better to _relieve_ himself of that grief and purge it from his mind, wrapping it up in that battered tin-box he kept in the back of his mind. It was better to avoid, and so Obi-wan avoided. He secluded himself, cut himself out of the bigger picture that was the world-- and after awhile, he grew accustomed to it.

In fact, _disappearing_ might have been his most well-honed skill, placed beside the empty chasm of his own feelings and contritions.

Obi-wan had taken a bit of pride in being heartless, though perhaps ‘heartless’ was not the most amenable word. To consider oneself ‘heartless’, one would have to be missing a heart completely, and Obi-wan had never succeeded in destroying his. He’d merely cast it aside, pushed it into the corner of his mind that was marked as ‘trifling’ and saved the compassion for where it was truly needed.

That was the first mistake. A mistake of _pretending_ he didn’t have a heart, a mistake of _writing off the most human part of himself._ The heart, the true entity behind feeling; a gateway to romantic and companionate love, affection, compassion, empathy… tragedy.

Oh, but there it was.

It was the tragedy that had made him seal his heart off, wrap locks around the edges of his mind until he could settle it into a perpetual state of logic and debate. A state of negotiation, if that was a preferable term; negotiation which Qui-Gon had always been very adept to considering. Although Obi-wan had been a different person then, not as composed, letting his heart rule his head as he’d been prone to do. It was youth, wasn’t it? Always the youth talking.

How old had he been? Twenty-four, twenty-five? Not such a long stretch, between twenty-five and thirty-eight, but enough of one that he’d grown jaded. The angst helped, the bitterness of tears in his eyes and the tang of bile in his throat. Death was a natural part of existing, but nonetheless, a gut-wrenching one.

Obi-wan had become such a proponent of death that he should’ve become used to it; it was a form of torture, watching light flicker out before your eyes, ( _even, and especially, when your own heart was thudding in your ears, dull and hollow_.) And the warnings never helped, were never more than a distraction; Obi-wan hadn’t helped either, in the end.

The conclusion was the same: there was love and there was loss. Somewhere, in between, was the abyss made for living, between the moon and the sun, out of sight and out of mind.

The misfortune, of course, was in the _inescapability_ of his humanity. Of the humanity of others.

That was why Obi-wan Kenobi had stopped going outside.

* * *

 

For all his paradigms and philanthropy, Obi-wan Kenobi did not like people.

It was not, to say, a repulsion, nor was it a disdain for the world in which he lived (although, at times, those distant echoes of apathetic bigotry were too great to ignore). More than anything, Obi-wan supposed he could chalk it up to a lesson in philosophy; the discomfort in human mannerisms and the capability for destruction that they all shared.

Whoever had once said ‘all monsters are human’ was hardly exaggerating. Embellishing, certainly, but in truth, the trials of evolution and the tribulation of social interaction were short roads to self-destruction. It wasn’t a certainty, but it was _always_ a probability.

Blood never left his skin. It never had, and likely never would, always coating his hands with flecks of red, layered old-and-new atop his pale flesh. He’d learned to ignore it; shake it off with a twitch of the head, a glance to the side, a lingering gaze upon the dimly lit screen of his computer as he worked on papers. And it wasn’t a terrible life, being confined between a number of light-grey walls and minimalistic possessions; he had someone to bring his groceries, just as he had the necessary tools to keep his body healthy, and he had a connection to the world, even if through a digital platform.

Leaving was unnecessary. Obi-wan always recalled that, when somebody voiced a concern. He did not yet have the _heart_ to voice the true motivation for cutting himself from the confines of existence.

He was terrified. Not of others, but of his own nature; of _attachment,_ and having those bonds ripped to shreds before his eyes.

Even more--he was anxious to leave this isolation. Anxious, perhaps, as a more fitting description; _terrified_ was a strong word, after all. It had been so long, and time did wonders on the definition of normalcy; was it all that light outside now? What did the sun look like, cast on a street corner or in a park? Had they ever finished the renovations in the Downtown? Was the Metro still packed, bustling with both locals and tourists every morning? Did the coffee shop down on Coruscant Avenue still get a regular influx of customers? Was it even in the same _location?_

 _Questions better left unspoken,_ Obi-wan reminds himself, as if speaking would somehow materialize the frustration… the longing and the terror that had intermingled and become a singular mass of thread.

His hands tensed on the counter, glancing down for only a moment to the blue cup filled to the brim with dark coffee. Almost certainly cold, now; almost certainly needing to be reheated. Pitching it was too wasteful, but his stomach clenched in a display of nerves, a clear sign of sickness. Vomiting would be necessary to purge the discomfort, and he hadn’t gotten a new bottle of zofran for a good month.

The coffee was a no today, then.

* * *

 

_Clang._

The sound came from behind the wall aside Obi-wan’s bed; it was irritable, the sound of something metal clattering against one of the unfortunate wooden floors of the adjacent apartment, echoing through the thin divider and into his head. He quirked an eyebrow, opening one eye rather caustically, perhaps more amused than annoyed for the time being.

That was until he heard the sound of something _smashing_ against the floor; not even a clang, but a shatter, and an audible curse as somebody seemed to realize what sort of mess they’d made.

_“Anakin!”_

A woman’s voice is snapping, and for a moment, she sounds almost aggravated--but it tapers off into a laugh, and the sound of the rather unfortunate person (a man? Perhaps) coughing suggests something between embarrassment and sarcasm.

“Padme, I can’t help it. I’m still not used to all this.”

Obi-wan feels, suddenly, intrusive; certainly, he’d heard echoes throughout the apartments regularly, but this was a repulsive _intimacy_ that he was intruding on; just imagining the faces that might have belonged to the voices was enough to make him feel as if he were imposing on them.

 _Youth,_ his mind strikes him. Likely, they were young--almost certainly, if he’d had to say. Possibly students, possibly friends, possibly _newlyweds._ Mirthful, though, and even happy-- Obi-wan couldn’t say for certain, though the jovial ring of Padme’s voice was a noise that could not be repelled from his mind. It was unconscious, this sudden _longing,_ the amusement and angst alike that had burst from his chest.

He’d been young, once, and more alive. Impulsive, surely, and a bit of a rebel even as he’d seemed so organized. It was the sarcasm, of course, and the berating; there was a warmth to it all that he can’t remember displaying recently. Though, considering it had been around eight-hundred and forty-five days since he’d last left his apartment…

 _Enough of that,_ he reminded himself, with a callous edge to the voice in his head, almost derisive as he paused. _You were told to rethink your life. You had to consider the consequences of your disposition. You owed it to him to escape the_ chaos.

The anchorage was often impossible to fully surmount, even with the guiding lilt of his innermost thoughts, adhering to only the most rational parts of his mind. Straightforward, blunt, organized-- occasionally, they would come with caustic wit embedded in the words, but for now the simplistic response was what Obi-wan needed to refocus.

He shook himself from his reverie; stood, to his feet, and made to move away from the wall which separated his being from reality.

It didn’t prevent him from hearing another laugh, a short exclamation of “ _I’m_ very _mature, thank you very much--_ ” and a reply to prod at the comment, _“says the boy who’s afraid of sand”._

Obi-wan’s hand lingers along the edge of the bedpost, holding stiffly to the wooden frame as the heavy in-out of his breath continued to echo through his ears, a point of life in the otherwise dead space of his quarters. He counts them in his head-- _in-out, one-two, in-out--_ until they fade with the chatter behind him, fade away just as the call of sirens in the distance outside and the echo of a person no longer alive pass the veil as well.

_Silence._

And it is silence, which governs his thoughts, pulls him into the present and acknowledges his ability to, at long last, tear himself away from the bedframe, away from the white-static and hushed-whispers.

_There is no emotion. There is peace. Here. Now._

He shuts the door behind him when he finds his way back into the living area and doesn’t bother to glance back.

* * *

 

The room is cold, with an almost frigid chill to the air as it drapes itself over every surface, clinging to Obi-wan’s bare arms as he leans over a desk, the goosebumps prickling his flesh and climbing over every exposed inch of skin. He has half a mind to at least pull a robe over himself, wrap it around his body to preserve some heat, at the very least so he doesn’t end up retiring early or plaguing himself with a cold yet again. The apartment building isn’t known for being the best-maintained; he isn’t even sure of how many times the heat has gone out in the past two months, only that the number is fast approaching double-digits.

The pen clasped between long, pale fingers tilts to the side; his grip is strained, hand shaking as the tension continues to build, deposited in his bones and preventing Obi-wan from procuring even another punctuation mark; pages upon pages of lined paper, each bearing the dark, hastily-organized cursive of his handwriting, stare up at him from the desk as though taunting. There’s an urge to pull away, jerk back and abandon the haphazard mess as it is, write the manuscript off as _impossible to finish._

He doesn’t know why he can’t bother to leave it behind. Perhaps it’s the tell of his other days, better days, when he’d felt alive and half-wanted, been able to enjoy the world for what it was without seeing the _brokenness_ of it all. Perhaps, instead, it was because Qui-Gon had enjoyed his writing, and Qui-Gon had wished him to keep up with it.

Perhaps it was merely due to the remnant of _attachment_ that Obi-wan had, attachment to his work, his students and himself, as an intellectual. The voracious need to understand and hypothesize and _see the bigger picture_ that he couldn’t relinquish-- the wish for tranquility.

His hands find his face, and he presses fingers along the edges of his eyes, the dark-circles worn into the flesh as he half-massages them to try and bring himself out from this stupor of uncertainty.

_Rat-tat-tat._

The knock is a startling thing, somehow surreal and yet too apparent to cast off as a mistake. Obi-wan raises his head, in pause, and waits; his hands have braced themselves along the edge of the desk and it’s only when the knock echoes once more that he kicks himself into gear, straightening the papers into a pile and stopping in the archway to grab an over-shirt from the closet at the entrance of the room, rapidly snapping the buttons into place as best he can before acknowledging the presence with a short “I’ll be right there!”

It’s careless, to wander out so soon, and with such little notice, but there’s a glimmer of intuition that is urging Obi-wan to _meet_ this anonymous visitor, something that’s telling him that it is _absolutely imperative_ he answers the door _now._

His hand undoes the locks without pause, having regained a steadiness with this notion of presentability. _Admirable, really,_ Obi-wan tells himself. _They might think you an actual person rather than just a distressed mess of a recluse._

And then the door is open; the dull glare of light from around the hallway projects into Obi-wan’s strained eyes, floorboards creaking under his feet as he shifts his weight to rest on the heel, looking down at a young woman with elaborately-styled brown hair, her eyes warm and pleasant, if not a tad surprised. She pauses, momentarily, though her expressions don’t betray anything of surprise; Obi-wan imagines she’s the orator-type, a voice of reason who is steady in speaking before large groups of people.

“May I help you?” He questions, once he’s past the element of astonishment that someone had intentionally presented themselves to him.

The woman’s face softens, and she smiles, amicably. “Yes, sorry. I’m Padme, your neighbor. I would’ve made a note of introducing myself sooner, but my roommate is a bit of a handful.” There’s a nod, as Obi-wan moves aside enough to clear the entryway of his flat, returning her smile with a good-natured one of his own.

“It’s good to meet you, Padme. You can come in, if you’d like, but I would warn you of the possibility of getting frostbite. The heater’s broken again.”

“I’m sure I’ve endured worse,” she answers, before glancing toward the door a few feet away, humming thoughtfully. “Actually, if the heater’s electric and not furnace-based, I could have Anakin come take a look at it. He’s a bit pig-headed, but he can get the job done when he’s not overestimating his talent.”

“A student?” Padme nods. Obi-wan stifles a noise of amusement. “Trust me, he wouldn’t be the first.”

“Fair point,” she takes a moment to pull out her phone, seeming to type out a quick message before glancing up to add, “He’s at the ‘rebellious’ stage right now, though. The ‘go away, you don’t understand me’ thing.”

“I was probably worse when I was his age.” Obi-wan shrugs, before extending his hand. “Ah, where are my manners? Obi-wan Kenobi.”

“Obi-wan Kenobi?” Padme asks, and he can nearly see the wheels turning in her eyes. “As in _Obi-wan_ _Kenobi,_ the crisis negotiator-slash-law professor?”

“You’ve heard of me, then? Hopefully only the good things.”

“Your book on the deficiencies of the judicial system was the main source material for my thesis,” she elaborates. “It was inspirational, the compilation of theories into an overview of the problems with the inner structure, how the profiling that goes into an overall sentence is the groundwork for repeat offenses, how the extenuating circumstances are overlooked in so many cases based on humanistic principles and schema theory. You meshed psychology with law to pinpoint the flaws.”

“Fun tactic,” another voice echoes, and a young man with a head of dirty-blond hair leans against the doorway. Obi-wan looks up, eyebrow raised. “Uh… yeah. Hi.”

“Hi.”

Unwittingly, the newcomer smiled, before slowly slinking up next to Padme and half resting his arm on her shoulder.

“What’s got you so pleased?”

“Landlord owes me twenty bucks,” Anakin said, without offering any further explanation.

“Windu?”

Anakin chuckled. “Yeah, you should’ve seen him. He practically blew up-- well, as much as anyone with that big a stick up their ass can, I guess. Twitching eyebrow, clenched fists and all.”

“What did you bet on?” Obi-wan inquires, leaning back against the counter.

“You _would_ like to know.” A smirk. “Anyway, Padme said something about a broken heater?”

“I did,” Padme confirmed, before gesturing to their neighbor. “Go fix the heat for your neighbor, Ani. I have to get my papers printed for class tonight.”

“Of course I will, Padme. You underestimate me. I’m a Nice Person™. I do Good Things.”

“Sometimes.”

“When I feel like it,” Anakin admits, blowing a kiss in her direction as she slips back out the door, shutting it softly behind her. “So… Negotiator, huh?” The kid questions, seemingly intrigued.

“Of a sort,” Obi-wan answers, feigning a gentle grin in response before waving the young man toward the office. “It’s in here. I’m surprised I’m the only one having problems, considering how low maintenance the building is.”

“Nah. I just fixed mine already.” Pulling off the black, patched-up jacket adorning his shoulders, Anakin takes a moment to kneel by the thermostat, lifting up the end panel to examine the wiring beside the controls. “It’s been a bad enough day already without having to worry about freezing to death.”

“Seconded.”

The tinkering continues mostly in silence, even as Obi-wan studies the back of Anakin’s head, mulling over the odd relationship between the new residents with a careful deliberation.

“You and Padme seem to have a healthy routine,” he commented, finally. “She told me you were a student?”

“Physics,” Anakin confirms, nodding. “I don’t take to politics the way Padme does. Politicians have always rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Understandably. The agendas are often difficult to ignore.”

“Yeah, plus some of the laws people have been losing their shit over are just… ridiculous. I don’t see a point of following rules when the rules only make things worse in the long run.” He hit the side of the radiator again, once and then twice, before it whirred to life with a sudden gust of warm air that left Anakin blinking, brow furrowed. “Well, anyway. It’s alive now. I should probably get going.”

“I’m sure you’ve a very busy schedule,” Obi-wan acknowledged, before tacking on, for some unknown reason, “You and Padme should… come over for dinner at some point, if it suits you. Think of it as a proper ‘thank you’.”

Anakin paused, clearly stunned, before nodding a couple times, seeming half-dazed. “Yeah. I’ll ask her… I- she’d like that.”

“Then it’s a date.” Obi-wan quieted himself again, glancing to the cracked door, his nails digging into his palms with the promise of the open space, what likely laid beyond, the world which he hadn’t involved himself in for years. It felt, suddenly, soul-shattering; the presence of Anakin, and of Padme before, youthful and genuine and inquisitive… “I should let you go.” he added, biting his tongue. “Good evening.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is mostly for intoxicated_by_our_lies, who encouraged me so much about this story and the development of a few additional scenes that weren't in the original chapter draft. merry Christmas/happy new year.

_“Oh, baby, save it, we’re wasted… I know we gotta slow it down._ __  
_But when the waves come, you face them-- and you know we can’t stop it now.”_   
   - Doing it to Death, The Kills

 

**2.**

“Do you think it’s true?” Anakin asks, his chin resting on his hand, pen tapping in quick succession against the coffee table. Padme closes the cupboard she’d been standing in front of, setting two mugs down on the counter before flipping off the tea kettle, barely offering him a Look™ in response.

“You need to be more specific, Ani. I’m afraid I have no clue what you’re even talking about,” Padme teases, watching the water well up to the edge of each cup, the tea bag lingering at the rim for a moment before sinking with the absorption. The image leaves her with an odd taste in her mouth-- deja-vu of some sort, perhaps, though Padme has never thought of herself as much of a ‘spiritual’ person. She’s a realist, basing her concepts of the world off of what she sees on a day-to-day basis, the fundamentals of human nature.

Anakin presses his lips together in a tight line, as if trying to keep himself from replying with an insult (as is generally his go-to, with people like Feris or Tru in class), but seems to think better of it. It is _Padme,_ after all.

“Obi-wan.” He admits, finally. “Mays Window says he never leaves his flat.”

“ _‘Mays Window’,”_ Padme mutters to herself as she turns, bracing her hands against the counter and leaning back onto it slightly, before sighing. “I don’t really care enough to meddle in what Obi-wan does, Anakin. He was nice enough to invite us over, which ranks him higher in my book than our other neighbors. Like, say, _Ventress?”_

“ _Ventress,”_ Anakin spits with vitriol, before it tapers off into a displeased groan as he shakes his head. “Okay, yeah, that’s true. But I wasn’t saying it to… mock him or anything, Padme. I’m just… interested. Call it a ‘research’ sort of thing.”

“‘Research’ is never a good term when it appears in your commentary,” Padme adds, shaking her head. “Well, as long as you don’t get yourself killed, I suppose.”

“ _As if.”_ He sighs, biting his lower lip between sharp teeth. “It’s more like-- I don’t know. Fuck. You’re going to think I’m being ridiculous if I say it.”

“What?”

“Well--” Anakin groans again. “I mean. He’s… not bad looking. And he’s intelligent and kind of abrasive, and overall, I don’t know if he’s the type of person I’d want to be around all the time--” _God forbid, professors-_ “-but he seems like a decent guy.”

There’s silence for a moment.

And then, as if on cue, Padme nearly bursts into a fit of giggles. “You think he’s _attractive!”_

“I didn’t say--!”

“You _do,”_ she pauses, as if for emphasis. “I can’t really blame you, because I do too.”

“ _What?!”_ Anakin splutters. “Padme, oh my god. If you leave me for some sarcastic-spiel, goody-two-shoes law professor…”

“Now that you put it that way…” the twenty-five year old teases, laughing. “No, Anakin, I think you know me better than that. Just leave the poor man be. He doesn’t need you conducting research on his personal habits. Remember the last time you pulled that? With Professor Yoda and the rats and the prune juice?”

“That was _one time.”_

“One time _too many_.”

The timer sounds and Padme plucks the teabags from each cup, opening the trash container with her foot and dropping them into the half-full sack. “Just be yourself-- not the over-the-top Anakin Skywalker you give the professors, but the _Anakin Skywalker_ I know. I feel like you’d get along better than you think.”

“I just--” Anakin pauses. “I’m not exactly the most ‘people-friendly’ person.”

“I know.” Padme leans down, kissing Anakin’s forehead, running a hand through his messy wave of hair before setting the cups down on the table, offering him a gentle rub on his shoulder. “Did you ever finish your statistics project?”

“Unfortunately not.” He sighs. “I’m stressed about--” the words were like acid against his tongue, nearly impossible to force out, scalding the inside of his mouth. “About… _mom.”_

Padme’s expression softens as she sits beside him, arms sliding around his shoulders with practiced ease, comforting. “I know, Ani. I’m so sorry. It’s… not the best time of year.”

“It’s the holidays, too.” Anakin spits out ruefully. “She-- she loved decorating… I still haven’t gone to pick up her stuff from the hospital.”

“Do you want me to stop by tomorrow? I have some time before work.”

“That would be…” Anakin swallows. “Yeah. Thanks, Padme.”

* * *

 

_You have (1) new message._

Obi-wan glances over with a frown as his phone buzzes, half huffing to himself as he slumps down further into the chair, fingers pressing circles into his temple. He reaches for the object, barely curling a hand around it when it buzzes again, more insistently.

_You have (2) new messages._

_Unknown: Hey, Obi-wan._

_Unknown: So I didn’t know when you wanted to do that thing with me & Padme. The dinner thing. We both have tomorrow off so if you weren’t otherwise preoccupied (??) we’ll drop by. Just hit me up with a time. _

A pause, and then.

_Unknown: It’s Anakin, btw._

A wry laugh builds in Obi-wan’s throat. He wants to laugh at the sheer impossibility of the situation.

_Me: How did you find me? I think I would’ve remembered giving you my number._

A few seconds pass before the next message pops up with a vibrant noise.

_Unknown: I have my ways._

_Unknown: … in other words I may have seduced Windu into giving it to me._

_Me: Your words, not mine._ Obi-wan answers, then adds:

_Me: Though that’s not a mental image I was keen on seeing._

_Unknown: FUCK NO. NO. I was joking. Not serious. Do you have any bleach?_

_Me: So you can purge the last five minutes of your life from memory? Afraid not._

_Unknown: Jfc don’t._

_Me: You want to go home and rethink your life now._

_Unknown: Never speak of this again. I’ll let Padme know._

A few moments later and his phone bleats out a sharp noise, intense enough that Obi-wan nearly drops the thing.

“Hello?”

_“Hey, Obi-wan. Did he actually steal your number?”_

“Unfortunately, yes.” Obi-wan admits, half-smiling into the mouthpiece. “Though at the very least I believe he’s come to thoroughly regret it.”

“ _Do I want to know?”_ Padme asks, before pausing. “ _Probably not. Anyway, I was actually calling about tomorrow night. Did you want us to drop by the store or bring something for dinner? I wasn’t sure if you preferred to cook, but I felt I should at least offer. If I’m being honest, you’re the only other resident we’ve met so far that hasn’t been… well…”_

“I understand, Padme.” Obi-wan turns around in his chair, glancing up to the calendar. “It’s quite alright. I’m doing this as a welcoming present.” _Which is likely insane, considering your aptitude with other people._ “I feel like we could all use the company.” _Not entirely wrong,_ he adds mentally.

“ _It means a lot to us both.”_ She sighs, again, voice taking on a slightly more hesitant tone. “ _We’ve both had a rough year of it. The circumstances aren’t something I’d concern you with, but this… we’re grateful. Really, Obi-wan. I know this isn’t something you do very often.”_

Obi-wan swallows, his hands beginning to twitch again, the familiar pattern of hesitant fumbling resurfacing as he blinks. The fear is lingering inside his skin, just as it always does, threatening to swallow him whole. It’s a promise of uncertainty, something that could go wrong, could backfire, could _make it worse,_ as if the closed-off world he’s spent years building will just snap and crumble before his eyes.

“I- I might… tomorrow may not be the most… convenient time.” Obi-wan finally says. “I… I’ll call you back with confirmation. Thank you, Padme.”

He slams the phone down on the desk, eyes clenched tightly shut, ignoring the crystalline tears threatening to overwhelm his being, the red splotches along his skin that can’t be removed with even the most vigorous scrubbing. _Attachment,_ he thinks, and then recalls, _no attachment, no emotion, relationships are chaotic and people tear themselves apart because of it. You need to break this off now._

Obi-wan envisions Qui-Gon, lying in a pool of his own blood before him, slumped over on the asphault outside of a state courthouse with his papers still in hand. He thinks of the bloody stains across a pale white shirt, one he never had the strength to throw out. Because it was _him,_ and it was _his fault,_ just like Satine, just like--

And Padme and Anakin aren’t going to become part of that pattern. He isn’t going to become part of theirs, either. Separated… separated…

_It’s better this way._

Obi-wan braces himself against the doorway, his back sliding down the painted wood as he doubles over, hunches on the floor in self-loathing.

 _You knew it was a bad idea when you opened the_ damn _door._

* * *

 

Somehow Obi-wan doesn’t have the strength to resist opening the door. He finds himself, once again, in the same position as he had a mere week before, watching Padme as she shifts in front of the entryway, her stance slightly awkward as she looks up at him with a sympathetic smile.

“I’m sorry for springing all that on you. We should have… made it more clear beforehand. Stopped by to talk and make sure everything was alright.”

“No. No, I- I’m alright.” Obi-wan concedes, sighing. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had any sort of… interaction. Although I wasn’t lying when I told you I’d appreciate the company.”

As if on cue, Padme’s pressing a small gift bag into Obi-wan’s free hand. “I’m glad to hear that, at least. These are for you. Cookies. I baked, Anakin iced. We’d still like to get to know you, if you’re alright with that. I know circumstances aren’t the best-- for any of us.”

“I’d be honored, Padme.” Obi-wan pauses, sighing, looking back into the dark room behind him. “Actually-- if Anakin is around now, I think this would be a convenient time for us to talk. If you want… you can come over for tea.”

* * *

 

Strangely enough, “tea” becomes a regular occupation between the three of them.

Little more than a week after their first conversation, Obi-wan finds himself facing the couple as they sit across the table from him, Padme stirring honey into her tea and Anakin blowing at the hot liquid rapidly in an attempt to cool it. There’s a couple books setting in the space between them that Obi-wan pushes out of the way, only for Anakin to raise a brow at the cover of the first.

“‘ _T_ _he Metaphysical World: Time Warps, Reincarnation and Deja-Vu’_? Can’t say I took you for that type.”

“Most wouldn’t,” Obi-wan shrugs. “It helps pass the time. The reasoning isn’t half bad, even with many of the absurd theories.”

“So you believe in time travel?” Anakin grins. “It would be pretty wizard. I mean, if it were real. Which it isn’t.”

“Doesn’t the “time warp” theory have something to do with transportation too?” Padme questions. “I’ve heard some legends about it. Stairs in the woods, invisible portals in vacant buildings. It sounds like a great hoax.”

“Conspiracy theorists might beg to disagree,” Obi-wan concluded, chuckling. “Regardless, it’s the least of my concerns at this point.”

For a moment the air seems to fill with a heavy pressure, the tension palpable, and thick enough it could be cut with a knife. A moment late, and Obi-wan considers the way the offhand remark could’ve been misplaced in translation. He opens his mouth as if to correct the error, only to find another voice parting the silence.

“Why did you stop? Going outside, I mean.” Anakin’s voice isn’t snide, not taking on the audacious tone it so often does. He’s serious, and it wears heavily on his features, the curve of his mouth set in a frown, his intent eyes that linger on Obi-wan as if he were an inquisitor attempting to draw information right from his head.

Padme nudges him, slightly, as if to berate. Her light orbs are worried when they glance up to Obi-wan’s, though she doesn’t correct her partner’s behavior; she’s curious as well. She wants to understand.

“I…” Obi-wan isn’t sure where to begin. “I was young, and foolish. It was a different life than I lead now-- there was… a friend of mine. A mentor. I watched him die after he took on a murder investigation. The defendant’s name was Maul… he was… broken, underneath it. I didn’t see it until much later.” He swallows, taking a quick swig of his tea, letting it wash down the back of his throat, easing his nerves.

“Maul killed my mentor after the trial was over. I began to doubt myself… and the system. But I _wanted_ to have faith. I wanted to believe in the cause, so desperately… I became a negotiator, wanting everyone to have their fair shot. I wrote books. I… got engaged.” He stops, suddenly, the tightness along either side of his throat increasing with increments, until Obi-wan is certain he’ll choke if he goes any further. “And once again, I watched her die. Once again, the system failed me… when her killer walked away with a probationary sentence. _Careless,_ they’re all… you can spend your entire life fighting and still end up with nothing to show for it other than your scars. You can do the right thing and still _feel_ like it’s wrong. I tried, and I kept fighting. It got me nothing.”

“Nothing but a head full of bad memories,” Anakin muses, and his voice grows lower, turning his head away in anger, one hand clenched into a fist at his side. Obi-wan observes the tension gripping him, the stiffness in every inch of his frame, only softening in the slightest as Padme reaches down to tangle her fingers with his, prying his fist open and kissing his shoulder gently.

“We know,” she says to Obi-wan. “We’ve both… lost people. Lost the desire and the motivation to get up in the morning… but we’re still fighting. And you’re still here, Obi-wan. Isn’t that what counts? You know as well as I do: when liberty dies, it will be with thunderous applause. People are ignorant, and callous. That won’t ever change.”

And then, as if contemplating, Padme bites her cheek, blinks, doubtfully, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Then, gradually, she extends her arm, reaching forward until her hand rests over his own, sitting flat-palmed against the table.

“That shouldn’t have happened to you,” Anakin breathes, and Obi-wan isn’t sure whether he’s talking to him, to Padme, or himself.

“It shouldn’t have happened to anyone.” Obi-wan finishes, and the tightness in his throat begins to survive, though the paper-white edges of panic still blanket the corners of his vision, and he’s certain that he will have a monstrous dream tonight.

* * *

 

As the days pass, Anakin and Padme become a fixture in Obi-wan’s life. Not to the point where their presence is overwhelming, of course-- not to much of an effect at all, as far as normal relationships go, but there’s a distinct warmth in a place that had once been cold. The gaping chasm of Obi-wan’s heart, once overwhelmed, seems to be a little more shallow.

Anakin will text him periodically, if nothing else to run an odd science joke past him; Padme has started dropping off his mail on her way up from the lobby, asking if he needs anything from the supermarket or a bookstore. On occasion, Obi-wan will ask them over at night, even if only to talk about mundane things and let the students recount their week to him.

It takes time, as any real relationship would, to begin to piece together a full image of the young couple.

Padme, who always seems to be bringing over sweets or coffee for him, is apparently a cafe clerk in her free time; her family owns a large and rather well-frequented establishment in town, though it does take some coaxing for her to admit it. Obi-wan has come to find that Padme is not the type to enjoy authority by birthright; _“it’s one of the reasons,”_ she confesses, _“why I want to reform the system and distribute fairness of judgment.”_

It is, apparently, another reason why Anakin seems to find her so enticing; he’s more reserved with his thoughts, almost cut off behind a dual-faced mask of himself. On one hand, he’s brazen, headstrong, liberal-- on the other he’s still grieving. Obi-wan hears mention of his mother, Shmi, having been brutalized by a drunkard one night during her shift at a bar. Anakin hadn’t had the money to try and cover the hospital bills, nor had his adoptive uncle-- she’d been taken off life support a few hours after being rushed to the Emergency Room.

 _“Less than a month ago,”_ Anakin confesses, and then shifts his jaw as though he wishes to say more. He doesn’t, in the end, opting to fix it in a stiff line, the fury burning brightly in his eyes as he turned his head, promising to come back later before stalking toward the door wordlessly.

He knocks against the wooden barrier between Obi-wan’s flat and the reality outside an hour later.

Obi-wan doesn’t regret his choice to pull the young man into his arms for only the briefest of moments, squeezing his shoulder in a gesture of affection. Anakin’s eyes are red-rimmed and sore, as though he’d been rubbing at them with frustration, and his lip is swollen and split open, a thin line of blood drawn over the side of his mouth from the cut.

That night, they have dinner in his flat once more-- Padme arrives half-soaked from the rain outside, a broken umbrella discarded just inside the doorway as she enters the room. She sets her bag-- quite larger than usual-- down on the counter, unzipping the larger flap to reveal a paper bag, rolled at the top and labelled simply with the word ‘ _bread’_.

“Dorme sent them with me,” she confesses at Anakin’s bemused look when she sets a _croissant avec poire_ out on the counter, splitting it down the middle with a rough-edged plastic knife.

“Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?” He asks her.

“Not often enough,” Padme answers.

Obi-wan nearly has to pause to absorb the radiance of the affection that seems to pass between the two; had it not been a fantasy of children and fictional stories, he might’ve been inclined to call the two _soulmates._ Padme held a golden edge to her aura, something that dulled the darkness around Anakin, made him smile and withdraw from the confines of his mind. It was, in fact, beautiful-- the type of love that Obi-wan has often contemplated, yet was never sure of.

His relationship with Satine had been quite a tumultuous one, of course, though it wasn’t common knowledge. It didn’t mean he hadn’t loved her. But what they had found in each other was something far more strenuous than what Padme and Anakin had found together…

And, if Obi-wan’s mind dared to venture, what _he_ found with Padme and Anakin.  
  
Solace. _Inner tranquility._

They eat mostly in silence, pausing to contemplate an array of subjects that seems to hold no end; Padme talks about the Senate, the government and how it is coming to destroy itself, the difference between what humans need and what they desire; Anakin responds with a line of statistics that seems to float over her head before crossing his arms over his chest and mentioning something about ‘ _not being able to change our society when they’ve corrupted themselves.’_

“It’s emotion,” Obi-wan tells them, “that causes us such turmoil.”

“Emotion? Emotion _is_ humanity, Professor,” Anakin quips back, his fist clenched, brow narrowed. “I’ve never gone a day in my life without feeling _something._ Even if it’s unwanted, it’s what makes me _me._ I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

“Perhaps you should agree to disagree,” Padme says, and then her hand is laid across Obi-wan’s again, searching his face with a knowing frown. “There is nothing we create that we don’t also bring to ruin.”

The comfort is a strange thing. Obi-wan isn’t accustomed to any touch- hasn’t been since he’d resigned himself to seclusion. He hadn’t seen the point, to be entirely fair, when the attachment of conversation was painful enough… but, of course, this goes unmentioned during his visits with his neighbors. He’s well aware that pursuing anything aside from a casual acquaintanceship is impossible, and Obi-wan has no desire for anything else, in the long run.

It is enough to know that there are other people out there, living their lives, growing up, making themselves known.

He excuses himself under the pretence of exhaustion; shoulders hunched forward, nails sunk into his palms until the skin splits open beneath them and he can feel the blood along his torn flesh. When he sinks into bed, Obi-wan has every intention of falling to sleep alone, trying to purge the thoughts of self-flagellation from his head; he does not expect to feel a warm pair of arms along his back, thumbs rubbing into the tight muscle of his back, comforting.

“I’m sorry if we’ve caused you stress,” Padme whispers, and another hand slides along his bicep, calloused fingers uneasily mulling over the skin.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made an error in judgment,” Obi-wan answers. Then, “Why are you here?”

“We don’t have anywhere else to be,” Anakin says, the lie obvious. But his voice is contented, somehow _insistent,_ and Obi-wan decides not to press the issue. “It’s alright to cry. I have, before. They start muttering-- the ghosts, memories, things you wish you could undo but _can’t._ Crying helps.”

“We’ll take care of you,” Padme adds, and the lull of her voice is sweeter than anything the middle-aged professor has heard. “Please don’t shut us out again.”

And, against all common sense, Obi-wan doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are what drive me to get out of bed in the morning. :) :)


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